


Les trois vœux

by thedevilchicken



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Disguise, Getting Together, Identity Issues, M/M, Magic, Male De Sardet (GreedFall), Pining, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: De Sardet goes looking for a book about a Congregation folk tale and what he finds is an old book of magic instead. He's always wondered what it might be like to be without his strange green birthmark, and so he casts a spell to change his face and goes out into the town to test his work.He doesn't mean to meet Constantin. He doesn't mean todeceiveConstantin. But despite his best intentions, that's what happens - when his cousin asks him for his name, he calls himselfdes Vœux. When his cousin asks him to join him in his room, he knows what he means but still does exactly that.
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay/De Sardet
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Les trois vœux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> This assumes the game's bad ending happens and de Sardet is male!

There's a story they tell, back across the sea where de Sardet grew up. It's about the man who built the Merchant Congregation and crowned the very first Prince d'Orsay. It's about the Count des Vœux. 

He knows the story well. And, as his dear cousin holds out the knife that he intends for him to take and bind himself to him, it's suddenly all that he can think about. 

\---

He was thinking about that story the day he found the book, though that seems like a very long time ago now. 

It was the reason he'd gone into the palace library in the first place, because he'd had the old song about it stuck in his head since breakfast - one of the kitchen staff had been humming it under her breath while she'd served them tea and when Constantin had joined in singing, loudly and mostly off-key, she'd blushed and bowed and said she was sorry at least one more time than de Sardet could assure her it was fine. Then she'd disappeared out of the dining room door before he could persuade her that his cousin was a mostly well-meaning idiot and actually, her humming was quite pleasant. 

He remembers how he sighed at Constantin, who just smiled at him and then blew on his tea before he started humming the same song. He remembers trying to admonish him, too, though the wicked way he smiled as he sipped said the words weren't having quite the intended effect. And, in the end, he remembers letting it drop, just like he always has. The fact of it is, he's never managed to stay mad with his cousin for very long. The fact is, he's always had more interest in seeing Constantin smile than frown, even if that means turning a blind eye to his behaviour every now and then. 

After breakfast, all through training with Kurt, the song was in his head; he knew all the words to all the verses because his mother had sung them to him when he was young. All afternoon, through lessons with Sir de Courcillon, the story of it was in his head. That evening, he took his leave from dinner early and left the room before Constantin could conjure an excuse to follow him. He went to the library and began searching through the multitude of books. 

There are all kinds of books in the palace library. It's been some time now since he was there last but he remembers the tall bookcases he and Constantin used to climb on back when they were children and the nick in the edge of the shelf in the north-east corner, third shelf from the bottom, where he caught it with his blunted practice sword while they were fighting indoors, just like Sir de Courcillon had always told them not to. De Sardet has always been the better fighter of the two of them. Despite Constantin's generally jealous nature, he's never seemed to grudge him that. Honestly, he's never seemed to grudge him very much at all. 

What he was looking for was something Sir de Courcillon had mentioned once: an academic text on the facts behind old Congregation folk tales. it had been written at least fifty years before de Sardet's birth by a visiting scholar from the Bridge Alliance who, de Courcillon had told them, had been rather at the forefront of her field. Of course, when she'd tried to perform the same kind of research in Thélème, the Inquisition had attempted to burn her as a heretic. Sometimes, over the years, de Sardet has found himself extremely glad that although tolerant of their neighbours' faith, his uncle the Prince does not share that faith. De Sardet doesn't share it, either; perhaps that was why he was searching for the book, or at least part of the reason. 

He never did actually find the book. He supposes it's still there somewhere, sitting on a shelf in the palace library with all the other books that Sir de Courcillon had persuaded his uncle to collect over the years, and he might never see any of them again - the books or the people they left back there on the continent. He didn't find _that_ book, no, but he did find _a_ book, quite an unassuming looking thing bound in leather that was starting to crumble a little at the edges and hand-written, as if it came from a time before the engineers of the Bridge had invented the printing press. Unassuming, yes, but something about it caught his attention as it sat there, nestled amongst rather dry-sounding texts on Thélème religious philosophy, small like a private notebook. And when he opened the cover, the first page said: _Les Trois Vœux_.

He understood enough of the old language to read the words but honestly, he wasn't sure if he should understand _vœux_ as _wishes_ or _vows_. Perhaps that was why the book had made its way into the religious philosophy shelves - the librarian had misunderstood and assumed it was yet another Thélèmian treatise on appropriate forms of piety. When he opened it, though, he understood: there were three long chapters, each describing one of the three wishes of the Count des Vœux - the three wishes that the story said he'd made on the road to Sérène and with them built the Merchant Congregation. 

It was still summer then and still light outside, so when he sat down on the armchair by the high, arched window, there was enough sunlight left for him to read by. He struggled with some of the writing, at least until he got used to the way the F curled and the S stretched and the writing seemed to flow more easily. He'd never seen anything quite like it, how it described the Count's three wishes in terms of magic, as rites and spells and potions that anyone with a basic level of aptitude in the medium might perfect. But, of course, the story said the Count - before he'd been a count at all - had met a witch on the road to Sérène. The magic had perhaps never been the Count's, at all but it had come from somewhere. The writer of this book, it seemed, had believed the stories were real. The writer had researched how to make _les trois vœux du comte des Vœux_ real, too. 

The first wish had been riches; the first chapter was dedicated to magical alchemy, turning lead and other base metals into silver and gold. De Sardet found it fascinating, but the simple and slightly awkward fact of the matter was that he was already one of the richest men in the Congregation, by virtue of his connection with the houses of Sardet and Orsay. The second wish had been influence; the second chapter was dedicated to power over people's minds, which de Sardet found a good deal too insidious a gift to contemplate its cultivation in a more than human manner. The third and final wish, though, had been transformation; the Count, they said, had been born as small and scarred and gnarled of form as his mind was sharp, and he'd wished to be made handsome. The witch had done precisely that, and he'd married the most beautiful woman in all the merchant provinces. He'd made the Duke d'Orsay the Congregation's first Prince, then married his eldest daughter. 

It was the third wish that captured de Sardet's imagination, as he sat there in the library that night, in the dying light. He touched his fingertips to his marked cheek and wondered, as he read, if it was truly possible to change the way he looked, even if just briefly. When he put the book back - he felt sure that a palace maid or his valet or perhaps even his cousin would find it if he took it to his room, and the binding was too delicate for his more private hiding places - and went upstairs to bed, he couldn't help but imagine it again, the way he had sometimes before. 

He doesn't always mind when people stare. It's happened again and again throughout his life and most of the time, he barely even notices that it's happening. The court of the Prince d'Orsay is grand and thrives on rules of etiquette but that doesn't mean its members have always remembered not to let their gazes settle on the strange green mark as they speak to him, or that as a child the other children didn't tease him for it. Constantin told them not to, angrily, more angry about it than he was himself, but that only worked while Constantin was there to hear them. And he'd wondered sometimes what it might have been like to grow up without a mark, smooth-skinned and handsome like his cousin was. In bed that night, twenty-two years old, long past the point he'd thought he'd given up on that desire, he wondered if it might be possible after all. 

Over the following few days, he returned to the library whenever time permitted. Constantin had been drawn more and more into his father's affairs and so outside his classes, de Sardet often found himself at a rather loose end; Sir de Courcillon actively encouraged him to read widely and often, so escaping to the library alone after weapons practice with Kurt, and once Constantin was otherwise engaged, was surprisingly simple. He settled down with the book and he read the rather meandering notes until the handwriting felt almost as familiar as his own. And, at night, when Constantin was sneaking out into the city, de Sardet sneaked into the library. 

Sitting cross-legged on the well-waxed parquetry, with the book propped open and lit by a single candle, he began to practice. It was difficult; some of the words were unfamiliar and he had to stop every now and then to consult a rather rambling dictionary that he'd borrowed from Sir de Courcillon, who had been rather delighted by his pupil's new-found interest in the old tongue of the merchant provinces. De Sardet had produced a completely innocuous book of the same dialect that he could pretend to be studying, one of the classic works of Congregation literature that all well-educated sons and daughters read in the modern translation, and occasionally they read together when Constantin was engaged with his father. But, at night, it wasn't the works of Bastien de Morange that he was reading. 

At first, saying the words just made his skin tingle and his heart beat much too quickly and left him tired out for hours, and so he wondered if he'd started with a plan that was much too grand. He began again in the second week, focusing on changing the colour of his eyes rather than making his birthmark disappear. He looked at himself in the small mirror he'd brought with him from his room, the one he'd taken to hiding there behind the books on monasticism amongst the Illuminated, and he tried to change his eyes to look like Constantin's. He whispered the words for hours each night, feeling his skin turn clammy and his pulse begin to thud. And then, one night, the sixteenth such night, when he was so very close to giving up, his vision flickered. When he looked into the mirror, just for a moment his eyes were exactly like his cousin's. In a rush, he realised: it _was_ possible. 

It was possible, and he'd done it, and that success only spurred him on. Night by night, he saw more progress, until finally he could change his face entirely. He could change his voice. He could pretend he was not himself at all. And, at length, once he was prepared, he resolved to put his work to the test.

It was a beautiful clear night though a little brisk - Sérène always has something of a breeze ruffling its rooftops, being situated on the coast as it is, but towards the end of autumn that sea breeze takes on an increasingly bitter edge. De Sardet didn't exactly regret his choice of attire but he did regret that he hadn't purchased a cloak or an overcoat or even a warm scarf to complement his newly-commissioned disguise. He pulled up his collar to try to keep the chill out of his not particularly well-fitting doublet - the tailor had checked several times that he really wanted clothing made not only with inferior quality fabrics but also fitted as if for a man of very slightly different proportions to his own - and he forged ahead down the cobblestoned hill into the city. His spirits were high. He was excited.

He hadn't intended to run into Constantin. He hadn't even known his wayward cousin was going out that night - he didn't always tell him if he had plans that involved sneaking out of the palace without a Coin Guard escort and returning inebriated in the small hours of the morning, but he'd believed he did tell him more often than not. Still, regardless of intent, he found Constantin in a small tavern in the new town, sitting there bold as brass with playing cards in one hand and a mug of ale in the other. De Sardet hadn't even realised Constantin drank ale - in their club off Prince's Square, all he drank was good wine or better brandy that he put on his father's tab even when de Sardet offered to pay on his. Of course, the club frequented by Sérène's high nobility and the tavern populated with men and women of the merchant classes were two very different kinds of establishments; de Sardet had known that, and it had been part of his plan, or he'd have stuck to more familiar ground for his little extra-palatial jaunt.

He hadn't intended to run into Constantin and he knew, of course, that he should turn around and leave as soon as he saw him there. The problem with that idea was, however, that he realised it was the perfect opportunity to test his work - he doubted anyone in the world knew him better than his cousin, not even his own mother, and what could it actually hurt? Standing there at the tavern door, letting the chilly night in and the fire-warmed air out, he reasoned that at worst Constantin would know him instantly, possibly think he'd followed him there, and ultimately care so little were that even true that they'd spend the evening playing cards together with his motley crew of opponents. At best, well, Constantin would fail to recognise him and the quality of his work would be proved, and from there he could proceed with his night as planned. 

Honestly, when he saw the cocky smile on his cousin's face as he played his cards and heard his happy laugh as he won the current hand, de Sardet almost hoped he'd be found out. Opportunities for the two of them to spend time together had become increasingly scarce over the past few months; since the Prince d'Orsay had taken a more personal interest in his son's education, Constantin's usually free time after their classes with Sir de Courcillon had been filled with audiences and councils and the observation of state affairs at his father's side. De Sardet supposed it had been inevitable, given Constantin was the only surviving son of the head of the Merchant Congregation and would, in the fullness of time, be expected to take his father's place. De Sardet supposed his own service would be diplomatic in nature, or else his long hours studying the intricacies of etiquette - both in the various provinces of the Congregation and with their allies in Gacane - would have been very much a waste of time. 

Before anyone in the tavern could turn and curse him for letting all the warm air out, he took another step in and closed the door behind him. It was a rather cosy room - the tavern was not large by any stretch of the imagination, with just six or seven small tables, aside from the large main dining table that ran down the length of the room all lined with benches, and the table for set for six where Constantin was sitting with his four odd companions. A fire was burning in the hearth on one wall, and an elderly gentleman with two decidedly wet dogs was eating a bowl of stew in a rocking chair in front of it. It hadn't rained for several days so de Sardet could only surmise that the dogs had taken a recent dip in the sea and were dozing there to dry off. There was a free table, though, and de Sardet determined to buy himself a drink, possibly a mug of the same ale that Constantin was drinking, and he'd take a seat there by the window. If anyone asked, he was a businessman from the next province, come to consider expansion into the capital, but he doubted anyone would care enough to question his presence. At least if his disguise were to work.

He'd just arrived at the bar and was about to place his order with the friendly-looking barkeep when Constantin called out, "Cousin!" 

De Sardet ignored him. He ordered a drink and by the time the barkeeper had poured it and de Sardet had slid a coin over the bartop in payment, Constantin had evidently picked himself up from the table mid-hand (much to his companions' consternation) and made his way to the bar. 

"Cousin, I didn't--" he said, though he cut off mid-sentence when de Sardet turned to face him. He expected a conversation about why he was there, if his father had asked him to follow and keep an eye on him or if the many delights of the city after dark had tempted him out of his own accord, but Constantin frowned at him instead. 

"I apologise, Sir," Constantin said. "I took you for someone else. From behind, the resemblance is truly quite remarkable..." 

Constantin took a step back, without looking, and stumbled over one of the dogs who'd taken to wandering about the room while his master ate; de Sardet reached out and caught him by his arm and though he did prevent him falling, jerking him back into balance splashed his newly-purchased mug of ale over his doublet. He frowned at it, unsure if he was more unhappy that his disguise would need a full wash on only its first outing or happy that Constantin hadn't recognised him. Unsure, that was, until Constantin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began patting it against the ale-dampened spot at de Sardet's chest. 

"Well, that wasn't quite how I would have liked to repay you," Constantin said, as he gave up his patting and simply pressed the handkerchief flat against de Sardet's chest with one warm palm. "I'm afraid I've lost so much coin here in the past few months that I have very little dignity left, but falling over Mr. Ferrigny's hound would not have helped matters at all." 

De Sardet caught Constantin's wrist with one gloved hand. "That's quite alright," he replied. "Mr...?" 

"Oh!" Constantin removed his handkerchief from de Sardet's chest, which unfortunately also entailed him removing his palm; he stuffed the slightly damp scrap of fabric into his hip pocket and held out his hand. Congregation nobility practiced a much more formal greeting, involving bowing and the sweeping off of hats, but de Sardet was at least familiar enough with shaking hands that he was able to pull off his gloves and grasp Constantin's bare hand with his own: without, he hoped, seeming very disconcerted. 

"D'Orsay," Constantin said, with de Sardet's hand in his. "Constantin d'Orsay." He smiled warmly, with something of a twinkle in his eye as he leaned a little closer and added, almost conspiratorially, "Before you ask: yes, I'm one of _those_ d'Orsays."

"I wasn't going to ask, Excellency," de Sardet replied, with a smile of his own, and Constantin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. 

"Call me Constantin," he said, then half-turned and gestured at the table. "And please, join us for a hand or two and I'll buy you another drink while you dry off. It's the least I can do for saving my princely arse a rather jarring introduction to the floor." 

He shouldn't have gone with him. He should have said thanks but no thanks and taken his half-spilled drink to the empty table by the window, just as he'd planned to. But Constantin's wide, expectant smile made the corners of his own mouth tug up in turn and he found himself taking the empty sixth seat at the table. 

"We'll deal you in with the next hand, Sir," Constantin told him, reaching across the table to tap de Sardet's hand in something he was sure was intended to be reassurance, though the intimacy of the gesture made a flush of warmth creep up through his cheeks. 

"If your companions don't mind the interruption..." he replied, and Constantin sat back and shrugged broadly. 

"A sixth just means a larger prize for the winner," he said. "Isn't that so, ladies and gentlemen?"

It appeared from their affirmative responses that Constantin's assertion wasn't wrong, and de Sardet was relieved to find he had enough coin in his pocket to join the game for a few hands, at least. He'd never been a particularly skilled card player, possibly since his uncle found the playing of card games a rather crass and uncouth pastime; while that had been enough to keep de Sardet from it, for the most part, he suspected it was the reason why he had found Constantin, ever rebellious in nature, sitting down to cards in a new town tavern rather late in the night. Constantin wasn't exactly good at it, either, but de Sardet could tell that skill at the game was far from Constantin's aim - he was there to have fun, and he didn't mind losing. Or perhaps losing his father's money held some kind of allure within itself. 

As the evening wore on, the other players began to take their leave. A rather beautiful woman, perhaps forty years old with silky hair piled artistically on top of her head and a rather plunging neckline to her otherwise quite traditional doublet, was the first to leave - Constantin stood when she stood and gave her hand a rather gallant kiss; she laughed and patted his cheek and said goodnight. 

"Lady Moreau," Constantin told him, leaning down against the back of de Sardet's chair. His lips were by his ear, and his breath made him shiver. "A widow. Since her husband died, she's been as bored as I am." And Constantin clucked his tongue and went back to his seat. De Sardet wasn't sure if he was more startled by the fact that he'd failed to recognise a woman he'd seen quite often at court until Constantin had pointed out her name, or by the warmth that lingered in his chest from Constantin's nearness.

Jacques Ferrigny - son of the old man by the fire - and his quiet friend Pierre were the next to leave; they took Mr. Ferrigny and his two dogs with them and at the door they called back, "Same time next week?" Constantin waved goodbye and told them yes, much to de Sardet's surprise. He supposed the two of them really must have been losing touch if he hadn't realised that Constantin sneaked out of the palace at the same time each week. He hadn't known he'd been doing that at all, let alone for how long. He'd have said the fact made him inexplicably sad, but it wasn't exactly inexplicable.

The remaining player was an older woman, perhaps sixty or more, with a wicked smile and an excellent head for cards. She'd beaten all of them quite soundly in at least two thirds of the hands she'd played and she shook de Sardet by the hand and told him, cheekily, that he was welcome to lose to her again at any point he so chose. Constantin laughed and swept her cloak around her shoulders and de Sardet sat and watched as he saw her to the door. Two men from another table joined her there - tall, burly men who'd seemed quite out of place until that moment when suddenly he understood they were her bodyguards. She was Madame Blanchet, whose rather upmarket brothel was, he understood, quite popular with noblemen and the more deep-pocketed merchants. Constantin just laughed at the look of surprise de Sardet was sure was on his face as he sat himself back down. 

"I should probably leave myself," de Sardet said, as he toyed with his third or fourth drink of the evening. The ale, he'd discovered, wasn't actually bad at all, and far from strong enough for him to feel drunk quite yet, but he understood it was a perilous line to walk. 

"I wish you wouldn't," Constantin replied, then frowned at himself and sat back heavily on his seat. He ran his fingers through his already rather tousled hair and shrugged hugely. "I simply mean it's been a very pleasant evening and it would be a shame if it had to end so soon," he went on, then he tapped the rim of his cup with one forefinger. "Could I get you another drink?"

"I shouldn't," de Sardet replied. 

"But will you?"

"I really can't." 

Constantin tilted back his head against the back of his chair and sighed. He ran one hand over his own throat, from jaw and chin to his somehow still neat cravat, and then he looked at him again. He cleared his throat. 

"Is there somewhere else you have to be?" he asked. 

"Not precisely, no," de Sardet replied.

"Then you would prefer you weren't alone with me?"

"I'm sure that's not what I said." 

"Then..." Constantin tilted his head this way and that as he apparently considered his next words with relative care. "I hope you don't find this too forward of me, Sir," he said, as he leaned forward on his elbows, getting closer as his voice dropped. "But I have a room upstairs. I wonder if you'd care to spend the night." 

"With you?" 

"With me."

"The whole night?"

Constantin's lips quirked. "An hour or two of it, at least," he said. "Then you can go to where you don't precisely have to be." 

He considered explaining who he was. He _meant_ to explain who he was, in fact, because his intent had never been any kind of active deception - he'd just wanted to know what it was like to go somewhere, anywhere, without feeling people's eyes drawn to his oddly marked cheek. He'd wanted to be sure that his magic had worked, and now he was sure, and he could give Constantin an awkward grimace and tell him what he'd done. Constantin wouldn't be offended, he thought - he'd likely laugh it off and they'd walk back to the palace together, bumping shoulders as they went. He could have told him, or he could have just said no, told him he wasn't interested or perhaps that he was married, but both of those things would have been entirely untrue. He did expect that at some point his uncle would sit him down and say he'd found him a match, a well-bred girl from some old Congregation family, but as yet that hadn't happened and...the truth was, he _was_ interested in Constantin. 

The truth was, he'd been interested in Constantin since he'd been sixteen or seventeen years old and, one night at one of the Prince's parties, a winter celebration involving all manner of masks and costumes, he'd seen Constantin with one of the older boys they sometimes trained with. The other boy had had Constantin pressed up face-first against the courtyard wall and it was dark out there, underneath the colonnade where the moonlight barely penetrated, but he'd still known it was them. He'd have known his cousin anywhere and, to his shame, he'd hidden and watched them. He'd heard the way that Constantin gasped when touched. He'd heard the older boy's barely muffled moans. And, once it was over, when he'd watched them walk away from his spot hiding there in the dark, he'd understood the tightness in his chest and the stiffness to his cock. When he'd stroked himself over his breeches, awkward and appalled, he'd understood: it wasn't just the fact of what he'd seen that had done that to him. He just couldn't help but feel that it should have been _him_ there with Constantin, not the son of the Count de Rochay. What he'd seen just wasn't right at all.

"You know, your silence isn't exactly encouraging," Constantin said, and all that he could think about was all the times he'd lain awake in bed and thought about his cousin as he'd stroked himself. He wasn't ashamed of that, not exactly - the Congregation may not have been utterly opposed to the teaching of the Luminous Faith but historically speaking, they had been perfectly at ease with romance between men _and_ between cousins. The issue was that he knew Constantin well enough to know that if he'd been interested in him the way de Sardet would have liked, he'd simply have said so.

He should have said no. It didn't feel right to trick Constantin like that, into spending the night with him, not when his intention was to spend the night with a stranger whose name he hadn't even asked for. He should have said no, but the look on Constantin's face was so close to impossible for him to resist. They'd probably both be married soon, de Sardet thought, and as much as Constantin resented his administrative duties to the Congregation he'd likely become more and more involved in general affairs of state and who knew, perhaps de Sardet would find himself dispatched to Thélème or the Bridge, or maybe Teer Fradee. He knew that was what his mother wanted for him, as his father had been one of their most important diplomats before his death, and the Prince always seemed to listen when she gave advice or asked a favour. Perhaps she'd help him to persuade his uncle to find him a man to marry instead of a woman at the very least, maybe a man who looked a little like his cousin. Or maybe all he'd have was this night. Maybe this would be his only chance.

"You'll have to lead the way," de Sardet said, instead of _no_. And as Constantin's face split into a bright, happy smile, he couldn't force himself to feel regret. 

He led him by the hand, out of the room where everyone could see them and through a closed door, past a barmaid carrying a large tray of dirty tankards who discreetly ignored them both, and then up the stairs. There were several doors up there and de Sardet wondered, even distracted as he was by the warmth of Constantin's hand around his, if perhaps that wasn't the way the business made most of its money: the discreet renting of rooms to those who preferred their liaisons remained private. Constantin only let go of his hand to produce a large iron key from his pocket and unlock the door; de Sardet couldn't help but think a smaller lock might have done the trick just as well but for some, he supposed, the key might simply add to the thrill. And, once they were inside, Constantin locked the door again behind them and left the key there in the lock. 

"So," Constantin said, as he leaned there against the locked door in what de Sardet supposed was meant to be a provocative pose. He looked at de Sardet across the small but comfortable-looking room, where there was a lamp already burning by the bed. He tucked both of his hands behind his back and cocked his head as if he'd done this a hundred times before. "How do you want me?"

He'd known that Constantin wasn't precisely celibate, of course; there had been nights over the years when Constantin had swept into his room in the middle of the night, pulled off his boots and sprawled beside him on his bed, still reeking of sex over a base layer of alcohol. He'd made crude jokes during their anatomy lessons that de Sardet couldn't help but laugh at and he even knew that Constantin preferred men, because he'd told him so. He remembered standing naked in front of his bedroom mirror, the day after Constantin's little revelation or maybe the day after that, trying to work out if he might fit his cousin's criteria, and now there they were, together. Perhaps he _had_ done it a hundred times. And he had no idea how to answer that question. 

"Would you believe I don't know?" he replied. 

Constantin laughed warmly. "You know, most people have an idea of what they'd like to do to the Prince's son," he said. He put on a pout. "Please don't tell me you lack imagination. That would be very disappointing." 

De Sardet sat down on the end of the bed. It was a four-post thing that looked faintly out of place in a room of that size but he supposed if that was the kind of establishment it was, it made sense. He rubbed his palms against his ill-fitting breeches and looked at Constantin, who was very definitely looking at him. 

"Well, perhaps you could start by taking off your clothes..." de Sardet said, and Constantin nodded. He gave himself a little push away from the door, light on his feet, and he began unbuttoning his doublet. 

"I'm sure I can manage that," he said, and he shuffled his coat from his shoulders. 

He wasn't exactly surprised by what Constantin looked like underneath his clothes but he supposed he hadn't seen him much barer than shirtless for perhaps the past six or seven years. They'd been in San Lucius that summer, accompanying de Sardet's mother on a month-long state visit to Thélème, and he remembered sneaking out of the Congregation embassy to go skinnydipping in the sea - all Constantin's idea, of course. If it hadn't been for Sir de Courcillon's wonderfully conciliatory words and the Princess' quick thinking, they'd probably have caused some sort of minor diplomatic incident; as it was, they only had to apologise and promise not to strip naked while outdoors again, at least not at that side of the border. 

But their visit to Thélème was long behind them and they'd both grown up so much since then, or at least they seemed to have done so physically. Constantin was still slim but not scrawny. He was still pale but not so much that his veins stood out like ink against his skin. There was a light dust of hair across his chest and leading down between his thighs, just a little darker than the perpetually tousled mop of his head, and de Sardet felt an unexpected urge to run his fingers over it, chest to navel and down towards his cock. He'd known he was attracted to his cousin, of course - he'd never been particularly skilled at lying to anyone at all, least of all himself - but it appeared he'd underestimated how strongly he still felt that attraction. 

"Who did I remind you of?" de Sardet asked, and when Constantin frowned he said, "Downstairs. Earlier. You said I reminded you of someone."

"Oh, that," Constantin said. He smiled wryly. "My cousin. Étienne de Sardet." 

"This is the sort of thing that nobles do with their cousins?" 

Constantin laughed. He rolled his shoulders and then stepped forward, bare feet on the rather worn but perhaps once quite plush rug. He stepped close and rested his hands on de Sardet's shoulders, then trailed his fingers over the nape of his neck. It made him shiver and Constantin seemed delighted by that.

"No, not precisely," he replied. "I love my cousin, but..." He set one knee on the mattress to the side of de Sardet's thigh and he leaned there, almost straddling his lap. He took one of de Sardet's hands and he led it down between his thighs. He wrapped de Sardet's fingers tight around his cock and squeezed his hand. "Let's just say the closest I've come to doing this with my cousin is describing it to him once or twice." Which, de Sardet knew, what completely true.

He leaned down lower, brushing de Sardet's ear with his lips as he pushed against his hand. De Sardet's face felt hot. 

"So," Constantin said, still there by his ear. "Do you have any thoughts yet?"

He had a great many thoughts, none of which were particularly decent. He'd have liked to have pushed him up face-first against the nearest wall and had him like he'd seen de Rochay do all those years ago. He'd have liked to have kissed him and told him he was sorry that he'd tricked him and actually, he'd now done a little more than talk about this with his cousin. He'd have liked to have thought Constantin might have still wanted this afterwards but despite the fact that Constantin was stiffening in his grasp, and rocking faintly against his hand, he couldn't help but doubt that very much. This could well be his one and only opportunity.

"I should undress," he said, and Constantin made a rather approving sound as he stood himself back up. De Sardet followed, and he undressed as Constantin watched him; every now and then, as he took off his clothes, he glanced up to find Constantin's eyes on him as he leaned back against the dresser and stroked himself languidly. As he pushed down his breeches and bared himself, de Sardet could feel himself blushing, but Constantin didn't seem to mind; he just slid his foreskin up over the tip of his cock and slowly eased it back to expose the flushed head underneath, and then he came closer. He came close enough that his moist tip bumped against de Sardet's abdomen and made him curse under his breath, which just made Constantin laugh and push him backwards to tumble down onto the bed, and then he followed, straddling de Sardet's hips. He spread his hands over de Sardet's chest and pressed down with his own hips what could only have been entirely on purpose. It made de Sardet's cock twitch under him. 

"It seems that part of you knows what it wants, at least," Constantin said, obviously teasing him, and obviously teasing that specific part of him, too. De Sardet could feel himself stiffening quickly, his cock starting to press against Constantin's perineum, up behind his balls. And he wondered, for one rather sickly moment, if this was just some sort of game to Constantin, if he did know who he was after all and the moment that de Sardet gave him any indication of what he might want from him, he'd laugh and say, _did you really think you could fool me, cousin?_ and leave him there alone. Of course, he knew that Constantin could be thoughtless on occasion, and perhaps not always kind, but he wasn't actively cruel. And the way that one of Constantin's hands strayed down from de Sardet's chest to continue stroking his own cock, almost like he couldn't keep himself from doing so, said he wanted this just as much as he did. 

Slowly, tentatively, de Sardet slid his hands over Constantin's thighs and up to squeeze at his hips. Slowly, he moved his hands to his waist and to the small of his back and down to squeeze his arse. Constantin smiled, apparently charmed by this turn of events, and pushed himself up straight from where he'd been leaning down against de Sardet's chest; he sat up, knees spread wide, back slightly arched as he shifted against de Sardet's cock beneath him. And when de Sardet's fingers brushed his cleft, he raised his eyebrows almost like a dare. When de Sardet's fingers parted his cheeks and he stroked there in between them, when his fingertips found his hole and brushed against it lightly, Constantin's face flushed a little pinker than before. 

"I'd like to have you on your hands and knees," de Sardet said, right on the edge of breathlessness. "How does that sound to you?" 

Constantin laughed. "That sounds perfect, actually," he replied, and he climbed off him quite rapidly. De Sardet watched him rearrange himself there on the mattress, his knees wide, leaning down on both his forearms, back arched, his arse in the air, and he felt his cock stiffen just a little further, leaking at the tip. He sat himself up, too, kneeling there beside him for a moment; he ran one hand down the length of Constantin's back, from the nape of his neck to the indent there at the base of his spine where he rubbed for a moment with his thumb while he stroked himself with his less dominant hand. He'd found he was ambidextrous to a degree - he could write with both hands, fight with both hands and masturbate with both hands, too, but he'd always preferred his right. Sometimes he'd used his left and closed his eyes to pretend that it was someone else's hand instead and for a moment he considered asking Constantin to use his hand, or to use his mouth, but then he shuffled around behind him. If this was to be the only time, he knew what he wanted.

"You'll find some oil in my coat," Constantin said, as if reading his mind, and de Sardet made his rather awkward way across the room to pat down Constantin's discarded clothes. He was right - there was a phial of oil in his coat pocket, thick glass in a rather chemist's shop green with a greased glass stopper. De Sardet turned it in his hand as he returned to the bed, finding it was rather old and worn, and he was frankly quite surprised that Constantin hadn't managed to break it, carrying it around in a pocket full of coins and his still ale-damp handkerchief. He was usually so careless of his belongings, but either this was different or else it was just made of thicker stuff than usual. Then he realised: it was actually his, something he'd thought he'd lost years earlier but evidently Constantin had _borrowed_ it. He really should have known.

Back on the bed, he half-stoppered the bottle with the pad of his thumb and drizzled it slowly between Constantin's spread cheeks. He watched it, drops of it escaping down over his perineum and he chased them with his fingertips, drew them back up, then pressed his oily fingers lightly against Constantin's slick rim. Constantin shifted; he leaned down lower, parted his thighs wider, made it so when de Sardet pressed his fingers there with just a little more purpose, it wasn't hard at all to slip one of them inside him. Constantin was evidently perfectly enthusiastic to be penetrated, so much so that when de Sardet's second finger pushed inside he moaned, low and breathy, and rocked his hips back to take a little more.

"You know, you don't need to play games with me," Constantin told him, and de Sardet more or less managed not to laugh out loud at that. He slicked his cock instead, with oil from the long-stolen phial, and rubbed his throbbing tip against his cousin's hole. He pressed against him. And since Constantin was so intent on setting games aside, he pushed into him; he held his hips and watched as his hole stretched to take him. He rubbed there with one thumb, at Constantin's taut rim, and made it pull a little tighter. Then, because Constantin had started pushing back against him, he moved. He fucked him, gripping at his hips, telling himself it wasn't like he ever had to know exactly who it was who'd had him. He fucked him till he came in him, breathless and hot, then wrapped one faintly oily hand around Constantin's cock and stroked him until he was finished, too.

Afterwards, at least mildly disgusted with himself, he put on his clothes. And he thought about confessing to him then and there, attempting to recall the words to end the enchantment a little early without waiting for it to wear off naturally, and explaining to Constantin that he truly hadn't come to the tavern that evening with the intention of finding him there. Perhaps he'd have believed him; he couldn't think of a time when he hadn't, though he supposed there was a first time for everything and he'd very much just proven that. But he didn't confess. Guiltily, he did not confess. He fastened his doublet and went toward the door instead.

"Before you go..." Constantin said, from the bed where he was still lounging entirely naked, and de Sardet turned back with one hand hovering by the thick iron key that was sitting in the lock. Constantin stood up, apparently entirely unconcerned by their imbalanced situation in respect of clothing, and strode across the room to him as if nakedness in the presence of supposed strangers was a perfectly run-of-the-mill occurrence.

"I didn't ask your name," Constantin said. 

"No, you didn't," de Sardet replied. 

Constantin made a face and he slapped de Sardet playfully in the centre of his clothed chest. "Very clever," he said. "I'm asking now." 

It was the perfect opportunity to tell him and de Sardet knew that. And he'd like to believe that he meant to say the words _it's me, Constantin_ , or _I'm Pierre-Étienne de Sardet_ , or something, anything, that might have identified him as Constantin's father's sister's son. He did not. 

"Des Vœux," he said, instead, suddenly. He'd blurted it out almost before he'd even realised he meant to say anything at all, before he could stop himself from doing it, and Constantin's brow furrowed for a moment when he said it. Constantin looked at him, frowning, as if those two words had lain his deception entirely bare, perhaps because de Sardet had always been such a terrible liar, especially where his cousin was concerned. But then Constantin's frown faded entirely and he stepped in even closer. He looped his arms around de Sardet's neck and smiled pleasantly. 

"Des Vœux like the fairytale?" he asked, toying with the ends of de Sardet's short hair. 

"Des Vœux like the fairytale," de Sardet confirmed. 

"I'd like to see you again, des Vœux," Constantin said, and he leaned in closer, so close that the tip of his nose nudged de Sardet's cheek and made him shiver. "I play cards here remarkably badly at the same time every week. You would be more than welcome to join me." 

And he was about to make an excuse and say he couldn't possibly, perhaps that he was returning to his home province and was unlikely to return in the very near future, or just that he didn't make a habit of sleeping with nobility, or that his coin purse had already been exhausted by their one night at cards. He was about to say something, at least, even if he's still not sure what that would have been, but Constantin didn't allow him a reply; he pressed his mouth to his, surprisingly softly, fitting his lips to his with his fingers still teasing the nape of his neck. It only lasted a moment but when Constantin withdrew, de Sardet was so disconcerted by it that he had no words at all. He just stared for a moment, making what he was sure was a highly unattractive face that possibly made Constantin regret asking him to make a second appearance at the tavern, and then he turned and quickly left. 

Somehow, once he'd slipped back into the palace and into his bed, once his clothes were stuffed down under the loose floorboards (from where he intended to find somewhere to lose them completely and never wear them again), it was the kiss that stuck with him. 

He suspected, as he lay there, that if he'd been granted three wishes like the Count des Vœux, he might have spent them all on kissing Constantin. He was, it seemed, a particular kind of fool.

\---

In the morning, he ran into Constantin in the corridor outside their rooms, on the way down to breakfast. Constantin smiled somewhat sleepily and bumped de Sardet's shoulder with his own, told him, "You look _terrible_ , cousin," and then turned to face him, walking backwards down the corridor with a surprisingly teasing look on his face for someone who was not, on most occasions, what de Sardet might have called a morning person. 

"Please don't say you went out without me," Constantin said, then he narrowed his eyes rather melodramatically. "You met someone, didn't you. You were out all night at some...secret assignation." De Sardet scowled and Constantin stopped abruptly, directly in front of him; only Constantin's hand coming up to bump his palm to his chest stopped him from ploughing on directly into him. "That's it, isn't it!" Constantin said, and then he leaned in mock-conspiratorially. "What's her name, cousin? I swear I won't tell a soul." 

De Sardet didn't point out that he could count the number of people he believed were less discreet than Constantin d'Orsay on the fingers of one hand. He just shook his head and screwed up his mouth to hide a smile because, honestly, at least Constantin teasing him was a sign that things were still the way they'd always been between them. Nothing had changed. Constantin didn't know. That was both a relief and a disappointment.

With Constantin so frequently occupied with his father, it was easy enough for de Sardet to slip back into his old routine. He left the clothes under his floorboards, telling himself he'd dispose of them when the opportunity arose, and he left the book there in the library. He kept up his reading, though every now and then the words in the book he was reading with de Courcillon made him recall the words of the spells he'd used to change the way he'd looked that night. And, most of all, most definitely, he told himself he wouldn't return to that tavern. 

That was even true, at least for the first week; he feigned a headache that night and retired to his room before anyone could discover his lie and he stayed there, reading or at least attempting to, as he tried to ignore the fact that his clothes were still there underneath the floorboards and Constantin would likely already be taking his seat at the table for cards. He lay there once he'd turned out the lamp and tried not to wonder whether Constantin would be disappointed that des Vœux hadn't come. He tried not to wonder if Constantin would find someone else to keep him company instead, another man to take to bed, to smile at like he'd smiled at him, and then get down on his hands and knees. He tried not to wonder, but he really couldn't help himself; he screwed his eyes shut until he saw stars and wrapped one hand around his cock. By the time he came, he really couldn't pretend he wasn't thinking about Constantin. He really was a terrible liar.

He told himself he wasn't going to go back and he supposes he must have believed that at some point, perhaps after that first night when he _didn't_ go back. He supposes he must have felt like staying away was possible because he'd already done so once and perhaps it would be easier when the next week came. It was not, however. The day came and he saw Constantin at breakfast, his usual surly early morning self as he started on his second cup of tea. He saw Constantin for training with Kurt, though he'd been absent more often than not over the previous few weeks, and they fought until their breath was quick and shallow and de Sardet was reminded of something else entirely. He saw Constantin that afternoon when the Prince called them both in to hear the governor's monthly report from Teer Fradee, and then he saw himagain at dinner, and by the time de Sardet excused himself to bed, he'd seen more of Constantin since morning than he had in the past four days put together. They'd always enjoyed spending time together but somehow this seemed different, now that he had that memory in his head that he couldn't quite forget and frankly didn't want to. By the time he got to his room that night he felt almost drunk from it, reeling, and even as he was easing up the floorboard and retrieving his disguise - retrieving des Vœux's clothes - he was still telling himself he wouldn't go. He was a terrible liar and it was a terrible lie.

He told himself he wouldn't go, but then he put on the clothes. He told himself he wasn't going to say the words, but then he said the words and changed his face and his voice along with it. He told himself that all he was going to do was look in the mirror and remember that night, but then he slipped out of his window and down over the trellis that hugged the wall outside. He was still telling himself those extremely feeble lies as he walked through the city: he wouldn't go to the tavern, or he'd just check through the door to see if Constantin was really there, or he would only go in for one drink, he would just say hello and then leave again. But when Constantin saw him, when he stood up from the table and waved him over, he looked so pleased that de Sardet knew in an instant that he'd been lying to himself. He'd known that all along, of course, but Constantin's warm smile pulled it into extremely sharp focus.

After cards, at the end of the evening, he went upstairs with Constantin and pressed him up against the back of the locked door. He had him there like that, with their trousers pushed down just low enough for him to rub his cock between Constantin's cheeks as he handed him the oil from his coat pocket. He had him there, hard and breathless, rocking up onto the toes of his boots with every thrust he made inside him. He wound the fingers of one hand into Constantin's hair and he tilted his head back, made him turn a little, as far as he could while he was still inside him, and they kissed over his shoulder as he fucked him, as Constantin braced himself against the door and pushed back to meet him, again and again. When he came, he came inside him, gasping against Constantin's neck. And then, still inside him, still hard though he'd soon begin to soften, he wrapped one hand around Constantin's cock and brought him off against the door. As he left, he wished he hadn't done it. As he left, he wished he hadn't skipped the week before.

It happened again the following week, and again the week after that. For the first month or maybe even two, de Sardet still told himself that he wouldn't return, and he told himself that he'd tell Constantin the truth; the first of those lies he stopped attempting to tell himself was that he'd ever tell Constantin that it was him, and soon after that he stopped trying to lie to himself at all. He would keep going back for as long as he was able to, until Constantin was sick of him or his secret was found out. The plain fact of the matter was he was in love with his cousin and had been for years, quite hopelessly, to the point it overtook his sense of reason. And so, he kept going back. 

It happened again all through winter and spring, so often that de Sardet needed to have several other sets of clothes made for him - for des Vœux, at least - and a second pair of boots. Sometimes he arrived in time to play cards with the others, at least for a while, and sometimes he slipped in through the tavern's more discreet back entrance and went straight upstairs to the room. He could pick the lock easily enough and he'd wait there, sitting at the small table by the shuttered window, or else he'd take off his clothes and wait in bed. Constantin was always pleased to see him, or at least he was pleased to see des Vœux. 

It happened again all through spring and into summer, past Constantin's birthday and the rather grand party that entailed. He'd told him rather regretfully the previous week that he would be unavailable for cards for the reason of that party, and then he'd rather recklessly said that he should come; he gave him an invitation, an official one on the palace's heavy cardstock, with _des Vœux_ written there in Constantin's own hand and stamped with the Prince's seal. He took it, finding the idea that Constantin had thought of him so far in advance as to bring an invitation quite intoxicating, but he made no promises. He took the costume that Constantin had brought for him and walked back to the palace with its bow tucked awkwardly underneath his arm. And he attended, much to Constantin's delight; it was exhausting, switching back and forth between faces, between costumes, but the way Constantin lit up when he saw him made the effort worth it. 

When he saw him that night, as des Vœux, in the costume Constantin had given him, he understood. They matched: they were two harlequins in black and red motley, their costumes mirror images, so when they danced together in their terrible hats and twirly-toed shoes, they were a matched pair. Constantin was pulled away from him constantly, with smiles and apologies that de Sardet was happy to accept as it gave him time to disappear, and change, and appear again dressed as himself, in green and gold that matched his uncle's outfit, and his mother's and his aunt's. He danced with pretty girls while Constantin rolled his eyes at him and found a dashing man to take a turn with until des Vœux returned again. It was a terrible idea, dashing back and forth, but at least his mask might hide any minor slips.

He remembers Constantin's gloved hands on him as he urged him out of the room with him as a dance was finishing, the smile gone from his face. He remembers sneaking through the gardens and how Constantin waved him after him, dodging servants from the kitchens carrying large trays of wine. He remembers climbing up the trellis, which was harder than expected with their ridiculous matched shoes. And inside, in Constantin's room, they undressed each other with the window flung wide open so the moonlight flooded in. It didn't seem to matter how chilly that made them because they shivered together till they were underneath his blanket. Then Constantin pulled him down on top of him and there, in Constantin's bed, in the palace where they'd both lived all their lives, de Sardet couldn't help but wish that things were different. He couldn't help but wish his cousin wanted him and not des Vœux.

He kissed him, slowly. He kissed him, pressed there against him, and if he didn't think too hard it was almost as if Constantin was looking at him when he pulled back and not des Vœux. When they moved, when he had him on his bed there, on their knees, his chest pressed tight to Constantin's back, his cock pushed deep inside him, it was slow and hard and dark and breathless and everything de Sardet had imagined all those years, when he'd let himself. Constantin braced himself against the headboard and reached back to grip de Sardet's hair and he fucked him, deeply, muffling his groans against his cousin's shoulder. He wrapped one arm around his waist and held him tight. He wrapped one hand around Constantin's cock and stroked him even tighter. And once they were done he'd have liked to have stayed - he'd have liked to have let his magic slip and tell Constantin he loved him. He'd have liked to have slipped to his room and come back in des Vœux's face and de Sardet's costume and showed him it was him, not his imaginary lover. But all he did was kiss him and then leave him there to see the party out in green and gold and his own face, sitting with his uncle. There were so many things he wanted that he couldn't have.

Then, at the end of the night, once the guests had left and the party was over, he overheard Constantin talking with his father. He was sending him to Teer Fradee, and he was sending him there soon. 

He'd tried to tell himself for so very long that this time would be the last time, even when he'd known it wouldn't be; the next time after Constantin's birthday party, however, really would have to be the last time because Constantin was leaving. De Sardet went to the room in the tavern and he waited, pacing because he just couldn't sit still. Then Constantin arrived, sweeping in grandly just as he always did, and there was somehow no hint of regret on his face that this would have to end. De Sardet supposed he understood that; perhaps he enjoyed des Vœux's company, but he couldn't pretend he believed they were lovers except in the physical sense. 

He longed to say he knew what was happening, and that this would be the last time they would be together. He longed for Constantin to acknowledge that fact, too, but everything went on just as it usually did; as usual, they fucked, naked in Constantin's hired bed, de Sardet's cock pushed up deep inside him and Constantin's breath harsh. It all went on as usual and de Sardet expected that he'd leave and that would be the end of it - all he'd hear of Constantin from then would be governor's reports read in the Prince's study. Except, at the end of the evening, once he'd dressed and was on his way to the door, Constantin stopped him. 

"Oh, des Vœux?" he said. "Before you go..."

De Sardet turned back. He frowned. "Yes, Excellency?" he replied.

Constantin left the bed, still naked and still as unperturbed by that fact as ever. He came across the room and the way he looked at him, oddly serious for once, made de Sardet's chest feel tight inside. Then Constantin raised one hand to de Sardet's cheek - the one that had the mark, or usually did when not under an enchantment. He ran his thumb over de Sardet's jaw then took a half step back. 

"Next time, wear your own face," he said, with a wry twist to his lips. "It's been getting rather difficult to pretend I don't know it's you in there when all I want to do is slip into your room at night." 

De Sardet frowned. His insides clenched up tight. "I--" he said.

"Don't say you don't understand, cousin," Constantin went on, cutting him off entirely. "I know. I've known since you first gave me your incredibly false name." He shuffled close and rested his forehead down against de Sardet's. "I appreciate the effort you've expended to maintain this pretense and we'll have to speak about precisely how you've done it at some point in the future because I'll admit, I'm intrigued. But for the moment, just know I know you know that I'm being sent to New Sérène, and know I told my father I would run away to Thélème and join the very first monastery I came to if he didn't send you with me." He pulled back. He smiled at him, still with a wry edge to it. "Of course, it transpired that he was planning to do so already." And with a very elegant bow, the effect of which was either ruined or perfected by the fact that Constantin was still entirely nude, he said: _Legate_."

De Sardet found himself at a loss for words. Constantin didn't seem to mind that, though; before de Sardet left, Constantin filled the silence up with kisses.

\---

The following week, they left Gacane for Teer Fradee. 

The few days before their departure were a blur of activity with no time at all to be alone - there was barely time for de Sardet to ask why Constantin had let him keep up his pretence for quite so long, and barely time for him to give an answer. 

"I thought it was clear you'd do your duty and marry whoever my father chose for you," Constantin said, as they sat together in the gardens. "I decided not to disappoint myself by saying silly things you'd think I didn't mean, or that you couldn't reciprocate." He smiled wryly. "I suppose I convinced myself you wanted to get it out of your system. And I convinced myself I didn't mind, if I could have you to myself for a little while."

"And what changed your mind?" de Sardet asked.

He remembers how Constantin laughed and squeezed his knee and nudged him with his shoulder, how it was so familiar and had been for years but now had a different tone to it entirely. "The party," he said. "You. The fact that I was being sent to Teer Fradee. You know, you called me by my name and not _Excellency_? Let's just say I found it stirring."

For all those reasons, de Sardet was grateful. For all those reasons, de Sardet tried not to think of all the years they could have had as lovers if he'd just been a little more rebellious in spirit. But there was work to do before they left, and no time that they weren't pressed for; anything else would have to wait.

They had to be careful on the ship. De Sardet didn't expect the Nauts could give a damn what two highborn nobles from Sérène got up to together just as long as they were paid for services rendered, but word seemed to spread rather quickly on board regardless of whether they really cared about that word or not. De Sardet supposed he couldn't really say he blamed them for that, given that there seemed to be precious little else to do except work and sing and play the occasional game of chance - he might have turned to gossip himself in similar circumstances, rather like half his uncle's idle court back in Sérène. And besides the Nauts, he and Constantin were sharing quarters with Sir de Courcillon, and even if he'd approved of their liaison - which frankly seemed unlikely given sex outside of wedlock was still technically frowned upon within the Congregation aristocracy - they could hardly have stripped naked and done it there in front of him. 

Fortunately, however, their quite well-documented closeness as cousins did help at least a little; they could walk together side by side on the deck, so close sometimes that not a single ray of sunlight could have passed between their shoulders, and that was entirely unremarkable. They could stand side by side and peer out to sea as they talked, their hands brushing together at the ship's rail. They could share a private joke and laugh and lean their heads together and he heard de Courcillon explain to Captain Vasco one night, as they stood together watching the moon cast shivering shadows of the rigging on the water, that the two of them were as close as brothers. 

"Closer, I'd say," Constantin murmured, and de Sardet's smile was hidden in the dark as he looked out from the ship's stern. The warmth in his chest he didn't need to hide, though he suspected Constantin at least knew that it was there. 

They had to be discreet on the ship, given they were living in such close quarters - de Sardet understood the Nauts felt free at sea, but to him the long journey to Teer Fradee felt almost more stifling than his uncle's court. He was glad when they finally sighted land and the island appeared there in front of them as if rising up out of the water. He felt an unexpected pang of excitement at the sight of it and Constantin stood close and squeezed his shoulder, eyes wide with all his many expectations. Their new lives were on that island, and de Sardet looked forward to that even as he regretted leaving his mother behind. He didn't expect that he'd see her again, and he told himself that was all the more reason to throw himself wholeheartedly into his new role in New Sérène. 

They disembarked and made their way through town; Constantin was all exuberance, and de Sardet followed close behind. When they arrived at the governor's palace, however, it quickly became clear that the two of them were expected to live apart. De Sardet would have his own residence, in a side street nestled in the palace's shadow. And there were things to do: Constantin saw an endless stream of petitioners and well-wishers while de Sardet's role as legate took him first to San Matheus and then to the east, to Hikmet. He supposed, though, that they'd spent so long waiting for a time to be alone together that a few more days wouldn't be the end of them. 

Constantin's room when he returned from Hikmet was a mess of boxes still only half unpacked, and haphazard stacks of books, and a painting on the wall that wasn't his - later, de Sardet took it to Laurine Morange, and they talked about her ancestor, Bastien, who'd written that cornerstone of Congregation fiction. That night, though, he and Constantin ate dinner together in the palace dining room, sadly far from alone; a number of local dignitaries joined them, along with Vasco and Petrus, though Síora preferred to eat alone in the legate's residence and Kurt had taken the opportunity to visit his old friend Sieglinde at the Coin Guard barracks. Constantin was on very good form; perhaps others - the Prince included - had their doubts regarding his suitability to lead, but de Sardet felt no such doubts. If they could have seen him there that night, he suspected their doubts might have been somewhat allayed, too. 

And, afterwards, they said their farewells to the evening's guests and de Sardet told his companions to go on ahead without him - he had a few things to discuss with his cousin privately. They had a drink in Constantin's study, by the fire, but conversation was far from what was on their minds; the way they looked at each other said they had other concerns. And then, once their brandies were drained, they slipped upstairs together, into Constantin's room. The bed was soft and the fire was warm and he remembers how Constantin's face flushed as he wrapped his legs around his waist. He remembers how he looked as he entered him, wearing his own face instead of a fairytale fiction and how Constantin gasped and arched his back and used his heels to pull him deeper. De Sardet was only too happy to oblige.

"You know, I've almost made up my mind to marry you," Constantin said, once they were done, as they were lying there together. 

De Sardet laughed and said, "Is that right?" but it seemed Constantin wasn't teasing him. He'd had time to think, he said, and he could see no reason why they shouldn't if it pleased them. His father would be only moderately displeased because he surely couldn't say he disapproved of de Sardet's family, or his upbringing, or his wealth or his intelligence or education. He supposed on that front he had a point, wishful as it was.

"Was that a proposal, Constantin?" de Sardet recalls asking, and he recalls too the teasing look on Constantin's face as he turned onto his side and propped his head up on one hand. He looked down at him, his other hand splayed on de Sardet's chest, but he walked his fingers up. He traced the mark there at his cheek and de Sardet wondered for a moment how he'd ever wished that mark away.

"Didn't you hear me say I'd _almost_ made my mind up?" he replied, and he flashed him a rather wicked smile just in the instant before he kissed him. De Sardet's never found the time since then to tell him that he didn't care if they ever married, not as long as they didn't have to part. Little did either of them know that even then the Malichor was taking hold of Constantin.

Now Constantin stands in front of him and he holds out the knife. De Sardet knows what he wants from him. He knows what will happen if he agrees to that. And he knows that he's already made his decision; he stopped even trying to tell himself a lie back in Sérène, after all. 

He takes the knife. He cuts his palm. He doesn't hesitate.

He made the decision years ago. He will always choose his cousin.

Now they'll never have to be apart again.


End file.
